


Leia

by orphan_account



Series: Leia [1]
Category: Ib (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 09:38:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3062978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She painted him, she created him. But he wasn't alive.</p><p>In which Ib is a painter and Garry is her masterpiece. She only whished that he was alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leia

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE
> 
> This is an AU in which Ib never went into the Fabricated World. Garry doesn't exist in this AU. Guertena's world does exist, but Ib has never heard of it. Also, Guertena is alive. This fic has very little to do with the song Leia, but if you interpret it loosely (very loosely), then it fits. This is NOT intended to be Ib/Garry, but I suppose you could see it as such, if you squint.

The brush applied the last splat of blue to the painting. The girl with the paintbrush in her hand took a step backwards to marvel at the picture. It was nearly perfect. 

She smiled proudly. There was some purple paint on her cheek.

The man in front of her had strange, violet hair that circled his face. One of his hands grasped a lighter tightly, while the other held a blue rose. His black eyes were fixed on the rose. In the background, there were even more roses, only red. A small smile played on his lips.

He was beautiful.

His hair was painted so that you could count the individual hairs, the fabric of coat was so detailed that it was almost impossible to tell it apart from real leather, and the rose was so realistic that it was almost possible to take it out of the painting. It was undoubtedly the painter’s best work, and nearly perfect. 

Nearly. 

Because no matter how hard the painter tried, she could not bring life into those eyes. She could not make the smile reek from melancholia, could not show how his sanity depended on the lighter, and she could not express how important the rose was to him.

She frowned. 

The man was lifeless.

She placed her hand on the frame and whispered to him:

“If only I could make you alive.”

The first petal fell.

...

“Thank you, and I hope to see you back!”

The girl smiled at the man, all the while pocketing the money he gave her. Her customer laughed at her, marveling at the painting he purchased. 

“Sure will! Your work is magnificent, miss Eve. You could make a fortune by exposing your work to the larger public.”

The girl laughed again and said to the man in front of her: “I don’t paint for money, mister Guertena. The only reason I sell to you is because I still need to make a living. If I could, I would spend the rest of my life inside, with only my paint and paintings as company.”

“I know that, miss Eve, but still, it pains me to see such talent fade away into oblivion.”

“I am glad that you uphold such an high opinion of me, mister Guertena. Especially since you’re such an great artist yourself.”

“You flatter me, miss Eve. I’m not all that great, anyway; I only have a small gallery.”

“That’s only because you’re alive. If you were dead, you would be praised as one of the greatest painters in world history.”

The man grinned at the girl. “Maybe. It is true that a painter’s work is the most appreciated after his death.”

The man picked up his hat from the coat hanger and placed it on his head. He turned to walk out of the house. 

“Anyway, I have to go now. Fancy talking to you, miss Eve.”

“Likewise, mister Guertena. Have a nice day.”

“You too, miss Eve.”

He opened the door to leave, but turned around one last time.

“Say, miss Eve, excuse me for asking this, but is that painting behind you for sale? It is very beautiful, and actually reminds me of one of my own works.”

He pointed at the painting of the man with the rose. The girl’s smile turned forced.

“Sorry to say, sir, but it isn’t. Garry is one of my most precious paintings, and I wouldn’t give him up for the world.”

“ ‘Garry’, you say? Is that the painting’s name?”

“Indeed it is.”

“Huh,” the man said, thoughtfully. “Strange name for a painting. But it’s fitting, somehow. More personal than most paintings’ names, that’s for sure. Perhaps I should think of renaming my own painting.”

“Which painting did you have in mind?”

“ ‘The Lady in Yellow.’ ”

“I don’t believe I’ve seen it yet.”

“I would find it strange if you had seen it, my dear. It’s part of my private collection; I don’t have the heart to show it off to the public.”

“I understand the feeling, but would you mind if I take a look? You said that Garry reminded you of the painting, and I would love to see how.”

The man seemed to think about that, before sending a soft smile. 

“I wouldn’t mind at all, miss Eve. It’s the least I can do for a fellow artist!”

The girl smiled. “Thank you, mister Guertena. And please, call me Ib.”

The second petal fell.

...

The next week, on a Tuesday, the girl rang the bell for Guertena’s house. “I’m coming, I’m coming!” could immediately be heard from the inside. 

The door opened and the man smiled brightly at the girl. The girl smiled back.

“Miss Eve, there you are! Come in, come in, my dear!”

“Thank you, mister Guertena. And I told you to call me Ib.”

The girl took of her coat and hang it on the coat hanger. The man gestured her to follow him. The girl did so, and not much later, they were standing in a hall full paintings. The girl stared.

“Come on, this way,” The man went ahead, and the girl had to run in order to catch up with him.

“Those paintings are beautiful, mister Guertena.”

“Why, thank you, Ib. I try.”

They didn’t speak until they came to halt in front of a painting of a girl. The man smiled proudly.

“This is ‘The Lady in Yellow’, Ib, or, as I renamed her, ‘Mary’. What do you think?”

The girl stared at the canvas, speechless. 

The ‘lady’ in the painting appeared to be around nine years of age. Her smile was as innocent as it could get, her blond hair was so detailed that the girl could count the hairs individually, the fabric of her dress was painted so that it was almost undistinguishable from real cotton, and the rose in her hand was painted so realistically that it could almost be taken out of the canvas. In one hand, she held a yellow rose close to her face, while the other held a palette knife that was almost hidden behind her green dress. Behind her, blue rose petals were falling to the ground and the girls stood in a field of red roses. 

But the most remarkable wasn’t the quality of the painting. No, it was the life it radiated. 

The smile of the painting echoed innocence, which was contrasted by the eeriness of the shining palette knife. And her eyes, o God, her eyes! They shone with so many emotions it was almost impossible to distinguish them from each other. Sadness, longing, playfulness, a glimpse of madness, and, above all, _life_.

It was breathtaking. 

The girl outstretched her hand to the painting, but the man caught it. 

“Please don’t touch her, Ib. I want to preserve her for many years to come.”

The girl barely heard the words spoken to her. Instead, she asked:

“How?”

The man blinked.

“How what?”

“How did you make her alive?”

The man stared at the painter for a long time. Then, a small, eerie smile played on his lips. 

“I gave her some of mine.”

The girl stared at him, eyes full of hope and confusion.

“What?”

The third petal fell.

...

The girl was sitting on the ground at home, staring at the painting in front of her. 

The purple hair was as realistic as ever, as was the coat, the rose, the hand, the face, the painting as a whole.

Yet, the eyes were still as empty as they were before. The smile was as hollow, the man as dead, and the rose as lifeless. Everything, everything was as lifeless as it was before. 

That painting...

That painting...

She couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Mary had been alive. There was no doubt about it. The girl was alive, if not here, then in another world. It was unbelievable, and yet, she had seen it with her own eyes. 

Mary was alive.

So why wasn’t Garry?

The girl touched his face. Nothing moved under her hand, and he was as lifeless as ever.

Alive.

She wanted him to be alive.

_“I gave her some of mine.”_

But she didn’t just want him to be alive.

_“I do that with all of my creations. I give them some of my life, and then, they come to life.”_

She didn’t just want him breathing.

_“Are you saying that all of your paintings are alive and real, mister Guertena?”_

_“No. I’m saying that they’re alive. But they aren’t real – they live in a world that’s not our own. Therefore, they don’t exist in our world.”_

She wanted him to be real.

She stroke her fingers over Garry’s hair.

Reality. 

What could she do to make it reality?

_“I give them some of my life.”_

_“They live in a world that’s not our own.”_

Then, suddenly, she had it.

_Of course._

The fourth petal fell.

...

Everything was ready. 

She had written her parents and Guertena a farewell letter, found the necessary tools and had taken Garry from the wall. The man lay now on the ground, beneath her. 

The girl grabbed the rose she had bought. It was red, but blue roses didn’t exist, so it would have to do. 

She lay it down on the painting, exactly over the blue rose.

Then, she grabbed the knife. Cut her wrists. 

The blood fell on the rose, pooling on the painting. Garry’s face was no longer visible. And the blood just kept pouring, and pouring, and pouring.

The painting started soaking it up.

Paint was replaced by blood.

Blood was replaced by paint.

Ib fell down on the painting, held the rose in her hand, and smiled as her eyes closed.

The last petal fell down just as a newborn opened his eyes.


End file.
